Monday, December 15, 2014
Goodbye, Charlie Brown
In our last post we mentioned that we had adopted a Charlie Brown tree, that hapless and precarious, but lovable, bundle of sticks for which a single ornament is life-threatening. The tree was, sadly, with us for only a day before going back whence it had come. We admit that this was entirely due to our inability to be without a REAL tree -- that is, a fake tree that at least pretends to be the real thing. We exchanged Charlie Brown for a sleek, slim fir that is too tall for the room but which -- this is important -- can accommodate many presents underneath. But perhaps most important, all our ornaments fit on it, which allows us to avoid the effort of paring down our collection. Someday we might even post a photo of it.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Searching for the perfect tree
It's not official, but we may be up for an award for Couple Spending the Most Amount of Time in the Artificial Christmas Tree Department--Without Buying Anything.
But that would not quite be true. We DID buy a tree. Sort of.
We are in this predicament because of our last Christmas tree, which gave up the ghost after several years of silently enduring being pushed and shoved in and out of the attic, twisted into just the right position for the placement of ornaments, and snarled at for being too large and not fitting nicely back into the toothpick-size container in which it had come. Near the end of its life, it had only a few working, prelit lights as its spirit slowly diminished and, finally, left altogether.
Let not tree purists think that they are the only ones who search for the perfect tree. In our own search for an artificial tree, we have been to five stores (six if you count going back to the same one again), agonizing over a choice that will from henceforth affect our Christmas cheer. A forever tree.
The Hero likens it to choosing a life partner: "Do you, Princess, take this tree, committing to its care for its natural-born days, loving it through its faults..."
But the problem was I didn't WANT it to have faults (just to clarify, we are talking about the tree here). The forever trees I was willing to commit to were no longer available, and the others had, shall we say, special needs. Or they required soaring cathedral ceilings, where we could offer them only cottage-type surroundings.
(As an aside, are makers of fake trees on a quest to make trees that look, if possible, even MORE fake? We have noticed a disturbing tend wherein there is more than one type of branch on a particular tree. I have my doubts that this trend was inspired by nature.)
It was a slow night at the last store we visited, and we debated so long over the trees on display that no doubt the employees were placing bets as to whether we would 1) actually take home a tree or 2) leave with no tree AND in separate cars.
If trees were people, the Hero wanted a Lilliputian. I wanted Gulliver. We ended up with Charlie Brown.
Yes, for roughly $21.99 you can buy an authentic Charlie Brown tree, complete with one decorative bulb that makes the top branches bend over so charmingly. We were sorry to disappoint the store employees who had placed bets; the Charlie Brown tree wasn't exactly a tree, but neither was it not a tree.
It just needs a little love, as the side of the box proclaims. Which we will give it, at least until next year, when the trees are on sale again and we can find our perfect, forever tree. With just one type of branch, please.
But that would not quite be true. We DID buy a tree. Sort of.
We are in this predicament because of our last Christmas tree, which gave up the ghost after several years of silently enduring being pushed and shoved in and out of the attic, twisted into just the right position for the placement of ornaments, and snarled at for being too large and not fitting nicely back into the toothpick-size container in which it had come. Near the end of its life, it had only a few working, prelit lights as its spirit slowly diminished and, finally, left altogether.
Let not tree purists think that they are the only ones who search for the perfect tree. In our own search for an artificial tree, we have been to five stores (six if you count going back to the same one again), agonizing over a choice that will from henceforth affect our Christmas cheer. A forever tree.
The Hero likens it to choosing a life partner: "Do you, Princess, take this tree, committing to its care for its natural-born days, loving it through its faults..."
But the problem was I didn't WANT it to have faults (just to clarify, we are talking about the tree here). The forever trees I was willing to commit to were no longer available, and the others had, shall we say, special needs. Or they required soaring cathedral ceilings, where we could offer them only cottage-type surroundings.
(As an aside, are makers of fake trees on a quest to make trees that look, if possible, even MORE fake? We have noticed a disturbing tend wherein there is more than one type of branch on a particular tree. I have my doubts that this trend was inspired by nature.)
It was a slow night at the last store we visited, and we debated so long over the trees on display that no doubt the employees were placing bets as to whether we would 1) actually take home a tree or 2) leave with no tree AND in separate cars.
If trees were people, the Hero wanted a Lilliputian. I wanted Gulliver. We ended up with Charlie Brown.
Yes, for roughly $21.99 you can buy an authentic Charlie Brown tree, complete with one decorative bulb that makes the top branches bend over so charmingly. We were sorry to disappoint the store employees who had placed bets; the Charlie Brown tree wasn't exactly a tree, but neither was it not a tree.
It just needs a little love, as the side of the box proclaims. Which we will give it, at least until next year, when the trees are on sale again and we can find our perfect, forever tree. With just one type of branch, please.
Monday, December 1, 2014
The Thanksgiving games
Like many families on Thanksgiving, we partook of the bounty before us as though we were the original Pilgrims: overworked, underfed, and unsure of when -- or if -- we were ever going to see so much food in one place again. We therefore loaded up on turkey and gravy and dressing and vegetables and four kinds of potatoes, and just to be sure our bodies would have enough to see us their through the long, difficult Black Friday ordeal, we consumed several pies and numerous cookies. (Technically the latter were the Little Persons' desserts, but in a society where food is so uncertain, everyone needs to share.)
But after dinner, the Little Persons extracted their revenge for the forced sharing. Taking advantage of the adults' brain-deadness, they hosted a magic show, which we were all urged -- indeed, compelled -- to attend. The magic involved was, er, less than magical, unless one considers the difficulty of accommodating five young egos on the same stage.Truly, THAT was magic.
When a large ball materialized, the action heated up. The magicians were transformed into two teams fiercely trying to keep the ball away from each other. Perhaps it was our brain-deadness, but it was difficult to follow the action, what with arms appearing where legs should have been and heads sometimes disappearing altogether.
Within the space of several minutes the game was forfeited by both sides, owing to the number of injuries that left too few players able to play. Sadly, the injuries also overwhelmed the onsite clinic, which was caught embarrassingly short on ice packs and had to rotate them among the patients, enforcing a strict 2-minute limit per patient.
The non-injured Little Persons, resourceful and quick thinking, hastened to put on a skit wherein both players played multiple parts as animals, or possibly fairy godmothers. It was hard to tell sometimes.
First a duck appeared. It seemed to be overly influenced by A Christmas Carol, as suggested by its urgent message:
"I am the Duck from the Future. I am here to tell you what will befall all ducks. (Pause.) It is not good. The ducks will die if you feed them. Do NOT feed them!"
Here the duck disappeared, to be replaced by an elephant who looked at us gravely. "The ducks are lying. Feed them! And feed us too! Otherwise we will starve!"
The elephant had scarcely left when the duck flew in again, squawking, "Don't listen to the elephant! He's the one who's lying! The food in the future will be ... " -- the duck searched for an apt description of the food of the future -- "poisoned! Do not feed it to the ducks!"
The pace quickly accelerated until we could scarcely tell the duck from the elephant, and were further confused by the appearance of a fairy godmother whose role seemed to be to grant wishes to cowboys who longed for a horse. We did not know whom to believe. Did we want to have our conscience burdened by dead ducks if we fed them poisoned food? We did not. Thus we continued in our brain-deadness, which we found pretty convenient. We were too tired to feed anyone.
Who knows what heights of drama and theater may have been reached had not the excitement been cut short by the father of several injured Little Persons, who declared it time to go home. Yet the possibility of further injuries remained: On the way home, they were stopping at Old Navy.
But after dinner, the Little Persons extracted their revenge for the forced sharing. Taking advantage of the adults' brain-deadness, they hosted a magic show, which we were all urged -- indeed, compelled -- to attend. The magic involved was, er, less than magical, unless one considers the difficulty of accommodating five young egos on the same stage.Truly, THAT was magic.
When a large ball materialized, the action heated up. The magicians were transformed into two teams fiercely trying to keep the ball away from each other. Perhaps it was our brain-deadness, but it was difficult to follow the action, what with arms appearing where legs should have been and heads sometimes disappearing altogether.
Within the space of several minutes the game was forfeited by both sides, owing to the number of injuries that left too few players able to play. Sadly, the injuries also overwhelmed the onsite clinic, which was caught embarrassingly short on ice packs and had to rotate them among the patients, enforcing a strict 2-minute limit per patient.
The non-injured Little Persons, resourceful and quick thinking, hastened to put on a skit wherein both players played multiple parts as animals, or possibly fairy godmothers. It was hard to tell sometimes.
First a duck appeared. It seemed to be overly influenced by A Christmas Carol, as suggested by its urgent message:
"I am the Duck from the Future. I am here to tell you what will befall all ducks. (Pause.) It is not good. The ducks will die if you feed them. Do NOT feed them!"
Here the duck disappeared, to be replaced by an elephant who looked at us gravely. "The ducks are lying. Feed them! And feed us too! Otherwise we will starve!"
The elephant had scarcely left when the duck flew in again, squawking, "Don't listen to the elephant! He's the one who's lying! The food in the future will be ... " -- the duck searched for an apt description of the food of the future -- "poisoned! Do not feed it to the ducks!"
The pace quickly accelerated until we could scarcely tell the duck from the elephant, and were further confused by the appearance of a fairy godmother whose role seemed to be to grant wishes to cowboys who longed for a horse. We did not know whom to believe. Did we want to have our conscience burdened by dead ducks if we fed them poisoned food? We did not. Thus we continued in our brain-deadness, which we found pretty convenient. We were too tired to feed anyone.
Who knows what heights of drama and theater may have been reached had not the excitement been cut short by the father of several injured Little Persons, who declared it time to go home. Yet the possibility of further injuries remained: On the way home, they were stopping at Old Navy.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
The great turnip experiment
Okay, so it wasn't really great, and it wasn't REALLY an experiment since I used a recipe. But it did involve turnips.
It is a fact universally known to people who manage a CSA that their customers must be in want of foods they do not particularly like, or of whose identity they cannot be absolutely certain. And so the customers receive those foods. In GREAT quantities.
Some of these foods demand creativity to make them palatable. Sometimes the customer pairs them with other foods they DO like (I personally recommend copies amounts of chocolate). Or pairs the foods with other foods that go well together, such as more chocolate. It the foods have parts that must be removed, such as leaves or skin, the customer throws herself exuberantly into peeling or deleafing, sometimes resulting in more of the food going into the disposal or garbage than is strictly necessary. In extreme cases, she pretends the food has gone off on a Great Adventure in the bowels of the refrigerator, and expresses surprise and regret -- sometimes real, sometimes feigned -- when it emerges, months later, inedible and must be disposed of.
We have received turnips several times in our basket, and I have tried numerous ways to make them palatable. All were about as successful as making a chess board palatable. Weighing my options this time, it seemed a shame to waste chocolate on them, and so I chose to pair the turnips with sweet potatoes and hearty sage. In this way I hoped to obliterate the taste of the turnips altogether, given that the recipe called for 30 leaves of sage, which could pretty much obliterate the taste of anything.
After a few bites I declared the dish a success, based on 1) actually using the turnips, but 2) not actually tasting the turnips.
The Hero is extremely enthusiastic about nearly every dish I make, to the point where I once said I needed a more objective opinion to help me truly improve my cooking. He took this suggestion seriously, and now offers one of two measured, thoughtful opinions on any given dish or meal:
1) This is the best dish EVER made ANYWHERE!
2) This is not swill.*
So I fully expected one of these responses when I asked what he thought about the sweet potato-turnip mash.
"It's okay," he said, shrugging.
"Wow," I said. "That bad, huh?"
He thought it would be improved by "some spice...cinnamon, maybe."
"Hmmm," I said.
"You don't think it would be better with cinnamon?" he asked.
"Well," I said. "it wouldn't be swill."
____
*We are indebted to certain readers for introducing this word into the Hero's eating vocabulary.
It is a fact universally known to people who manage a CSA that their customers must be in want of foods they do not particularly like, or of whose identity they cannot be absolutely certain. And so the customers receive those foods. In GREAT quantities.
Some of these foods demand creativity to make them palatable. Sometimes the customer pairs them with other foods they DO like (I personally recommend copies amounts of chocolate). Or pairs the foods with other foods that go well together, such as more chocolate. It the foods have parts that must be removed, such as leaves or skin, the customer throws herself exuberantly into peeling or deleafing, sometimes resulting in more of the food going into the disposal or garbage than is strictly necessary. In extreme cases, she pretends the food has gone off on a Great Adventure in the bowels of the refrigerator, and expresses surprise and regret -- sometimes real, sometimes feigned -- when it emerges, months later, inedible and must be disposed of.
We have received turnips several times in our basket, and I have tried numerous ways to make them palatable. All were about as successful as making a chess board palatable. Weighing my options this time, it seemed a shame to waste chocolate on them, and so I chose to pair the turnips with sweet potatoes and hearty sage. In this way I hoped to obliterate the taste of the turnips altogether, given that the recipe called for 30 leaves of sage, which could pretty much obliterate the taste of anything.
After a few bites I declared the dish a success, based on 1) actually using the turnips, but 2) not actually tasting the turnips.
The Hero is extremely enthusiastic about nearly every dish I make, to the point where I once said I needed a more objective opinion to help me truly improve my cooking. He took this suggestion seriously, and now offers one of two measured, thoughtful opinions on any given dish or meal:
1) This is the best dish EVER made ANYWHERE!
2) This is not swill.*
So I fully expected one of these responses when I asked what he thought about the sweet potato-turnip mash.
"It's okay," he said, shrugging.
"Wow," I said. "That bad, huh?"
He thought it would be improved by "some spice...cinnamon, maybe."
"Hmmm," I said.
"You don't think it would be better with cinnamon?" he asked.
"Well," I said. "it wouldn't be swill."
____
*We are indebted to certain readers for introducing this word into the Hero's eating vocabulary.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Big and bigger
Several people, upon hearing that I recently returned from Dallas, have asked how it was.
"Big," I tell them. "Big and gray."
The buildings are tall. Many, such as the convention center where I spent several days, are gray. The insides of hotels and restaurants soar up to wasted space. The overpasses, which are numerous, are tall -- and gray.
True, many of the hotels in the area are lit up spectacularly at night, such that when you close your eyes in bed at night, that bombardment of color -- blue, purple, green, red, blue, purple, green, red, bluepurplegreenred -- invades your sleep. But during the day, the city pretty much resembles a gigantic herd of oddly shaped elephants.
Just a guess, but this is probably not the image city officials were going for.
And there are a lot of hospitals. Or course this is probably reflective of Dallas being a large city, perhaps even one on the forefront of medicine. But riding in a Dallas taxi -- as it careens around town as if in a supercharged video game -- gives one a unique perspective on health care in general and emergency medicine in particular. One has occasion, although not much time, to wonder whether one will need these services as a direct result of the taxi ride.
The airport, too, is large, unless you fly in to the smaller airport. This airport has a friendly, almost cozy feeling, with gate numbers like 3, or 7. This raises travelers' expectations that their luggage might actually arrive in a timely manner. Such expectations are unfounded, however, as luggage appears to travel from the smaller airport over to the larger one, take a little ride on the carousels there, and them finally make its way back to you.
In keeping with the BIG theme, food portions in restaurants are large enough that you may need another set of luggage to take your leftovers with you, but who is complaining? Grilled cheese on Texas toast, with three kinds of cheeses and ham high enough to fit under your Stetson -- what's not to love? The only regret, perhaps, is that such indulgences leave little room for dessert, which is why you have to engage in strategic food planning by having dessert for lunch.
Which is just what we did, encouraged by the free dessert provided at our convention lunch every day. But we didn't feel much guilt, because after lunch we had to hike about four miles within the convention center, and surely we walked off our lemon pie or Killer Mexican Chocolate Cake several times over.
Because, did I mention the convention center is big?
"Big," I tell them. "Big and gray."
The buildings are tall. Many, such as the convention center where I spent several days, are gray. The insides of hotels and restaurants soar up to wasted space. The overpasses, which are numerous, are tall -- and gray.
True, many of the hotels in the area are lit up spectacularly at night, such that when you close your eyes in bed at night, that bombardment of color -- blue, purple, green, red, blue, purple, green, red, bluepurplegreenred -- invades your sleep. But during the day, the city pretty much resembles a gigantic herd of oddly shaped elephants.
Just a guess, but this is probably not the image city officials were going for.
And there are a lot of hospitals. Or course this is probably reflective of Dallas being a large city, perhaps even one on the forefront of medicine. But riding in a Dallas taxi -- as it careens around town as if in a supercharged video game -- gives one a unique perspective on health care in general and emergency medicine in particular. One has occasion, although not much time, to wonder whether one will need these services as a direct result of the taxi ride.
The airport, too, is large, unless you fly in to the smaller airport. This airport has a friendly, almost cozy feeling, with gate numbers like 3, or 7. This raises travelers' expectations that their luggage might actually arrive in a timely manner. Such expectations are unfounded, however, as luggage appears to travel from the smaller airport over to the larger one, take a little ride on the carousels there, and them finally make its way back to you.
In keeping with the BIG theme, food portions in restaurants are large enough that you may need another set of luggage to take your leftovers with you, but who is complaining? Grilled cheese on Texas toast, with three kinds of cheeses and ham high enough to fit under your Stetson -- what's not to love? The only regret, perhaps, is that such indulgences leave little room for dessert, which is why you have to engage in strategic food planning by having dessert for lunch.
Which is just what we did, encouraged by the free dessert provided at our convention lunch every day. But we didn't feel much guilt, because after lunch we had to hike about four miles within the convention center, and surely we walked off our lemon pie or Killer Mexican Chocolate Cake several times over.
Because, did I mention the convention center is big?
Monday, October 27, 2014
Autumn, pumpkins, and nemeses
It is that time of year again, when the air is crisp, leaves crunch underfoot, and we commence our annual search for the perfect pumpkin. Following this, we begin our annual fight with the local squirrels, who believe pumpkins are theirs by divine right.
There are approximately a kajillion and a half pumpkins at each pumpkin patch, farm, or store we see. These places should be squirrel meccas. Yet we have never seen a bite taken out of any of these pumpkins. The day we bring our lone pumpkin home, however, the squirrels are waiting. It's like they have a Pumpkin Watch set up, manned by junior squirrels who raise the alarm: "Hey, it's here!" And like many tribes in the human world, the juniors watch, longingly, as the more mature of the bunch go off to attack and enjoy the spoils. "Next time," they tell the young buck squirrels, eager for action.
While we were searching for this year's squirrel target at a farm, a young girl stood next to me, solemnly looking at all the pumpkins in the large bin. She made occasional commentary on the ones I picked up, chiefly variations on "Hmmm." Clearly she was looking for a very specific pumpkin. Finally I asked her what kind she was searching for.
"I'm looking for the one with NO dirt on it," she announced solemnly.
It was a secret wish of mine, too, but of course it doesn't matter whether one's pumpkin is dirty. Because the squirrels are going to eat it anyway.
The Hero is hoping not to repeat his rather scary experience from a recent Halloween. He was handing out candy and noticed a young girl in a rather odd, homemade costume that looked like -- but no, it couldn't be --
"Is she a stink bug?" he said to the father.
His tone, I am sure, suggested that he thought the situation might warrant a call to protective services. But the father, oblivious, proudly indicated that yes, his sweet daughter WAS impersonating one of the most vile members of the insect world -- the Hero's personal nemesis.
The Hero can only hope that this year, or some Halloween in the near future, some youngster, armed and dressed as the Mortal Enemy of Stink Bugs, will show up to take care of this menace once and for all. And THAT child will have all the candy he -- or she -- will ever want.
Maybe we'll throw in a dirt-free pumpkin, too.
There are approximately a kajillion and a half pumpkins at each pumpkin patch, farm, or store we see. These places should be squirrel meccas. Yet we have never seen a bite taken out of any of these pumpkins. The day we bring our lone pumpkin home, however, the squirrels are waiting. It's like they have a Pumpkin Watch set up, manned by junior squirrels who raise the alarm: "Hey, it's here!" And like many tribes in the human world, the juniors watch, longingly, as the more mature of the bunch go off to attack and enjoy the spoils. "Next time," they tell the young buck squirrels, eager for action.
While we were searching for this year's squirrel target at a farm, a young girl stood next to me, solemnly looking at all the pumpkins in the large bin. She made occasional commentary on the ones I picked up, chiefly variations on "Hmmm." Clearly she was looking for a very specific pumpkin. Finally I asked her what kind she was searching for.
"I'm looking for the one with NO dirt on it," she announced solemnly.
It was a secret wish of mine, too, but of course it doesn't matter whether one's pumpkin is dirty. Because the squirrels are going to eat it anyway.
The Hero is hoping not to repeat his rather scary experience from a recent Halloween. He was handing out candy and noticed a young girl in a rather odd, homemade costume that looked like -- but no, it couldn't be --
"Is she a stink bug?" he said to the father.
His tone, I am sure, suggested that he thought the situation might warrant a call to protective services. But the father, oblivious, proudly indicated that yes, his sweet daughter WAS impersonating one of the most vile members of the insect world -- the Hero's personal nemesis.
The Hero can only hope that this year, or some Halloween in the near future, some youngster, armed and dressed as the Mortal Enemy of Stink Bugs, will show up to take care of this menace once and for all. And THAT child will have all the candy he -- or she -- will ever want.
Maybe we'll throw in a dirt-free pumpkin, too.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Tour de White House
The White House, which relatives and I toured recently, is one of the few residences of a head of state in the world that is open to the public. This is thanks to our wise founding fathers, who foresaw that the American people would yearn to walk in the hallowed rooms of their leaders, behold with their own eyes the fascinating china patterns of successive administrations, jump fences and crash internationals galas, etc. They therefore set aside rooms in the White House whose only function is for public gawking.
This provision can be found in Federal Document #932A: Public Access to Executive Residence (or at Least Part of It), which states that "A percentage of Rooms in the Executive Residence, to be named forthwith, shall be preserved solely for Public Viewing; they shall have no Bearing on actual Governmental Function nor on the President's day-to-day Business. Neither the President nor his Cabinet Members, nor Members of Congress, nor any visiting Dignitary, shall ever set Foot in any of these Rooms, unless doing so as a Member of the General Public. Nor shall any Member of the President's Family do so, unless in an Emergency in order to retrieve, for example, the Presidential Dog."
On any given day, there are throngs of people from the general public lined up to view these rooms, which include the Green Room, Blue Room, Red Room, Purple Room, Striped Room, Polka-Dot Room, the Multipurpose Room, the Multitasking Multipurpose Room, the Room Decorated by the Cat in Residence, etc. You can tell that these rooms have no actual governmental function because during tours they are staffed by "Secret Service" persons, who are obviously not true Secret Service because they do not wear dark glasses. They ARE, however, equipped with little earpieces, from which they receive top-secret governmental information, such as "bottom of the ninth, two outs, and Fernandez is up..."
Before entering these rooms, visitors are led along a corridor featuring photos of various presidents through the years. These photos also prominently feature presidential pets, who are often remembered fondly by visitors, even when their owners are somewhat difficult to remember. "Look, here's Him and Her! They were such cute beagles. Let's see, who was president then...Nixon? Ford?" "No, no, I'm sure it was earlier -- it was...him and..her..."
Some visitors are lucky enough to get a glimpse, as we did, of important members of the First Family during their tour. In our case it was the presidential dogs, Bo and Sunny, who made an appearance, albeit brief. The dogs were gracious but did not, following years of protocol, offer autographs.
The "Secret Service" people are full of interesting tidbits of information, such as that the room heavily decorated in green tones is known as the Green Room, or that the many pieces of furniture with eagles on them are from Teddy Roosevelt's era. ("He liked eagles," the Secret Service man offered. They certainly know their stuff, those Secret Service people.)
You will also learn, as a visitor, the number of rooms in the house (132), the number of fireplaces (28), and most important, the number of bathrooms (35). Visitors, of course, never see ANY bathrooms, they having not yet been invented when the idea for the Visitor Wing was conceived.
Despite this shortcoming, the tour is very informative and not to be missed. Of course, you could see much the same things on a virtual tour of the White House online. Maybe even a bathroom.
This provision can be found in Federal Document #932A: Public Access to Executive Residence (or at Least Part of It), which states that "A percentage of Rooms in the Executive Residence, to be named forthwith, shall be preserved solely for Public Viewing; they shall have no Bearing on actual Governmental Function nor on the President's day-to-day Business. Neither the President nor his Cabinet Members, nor Members of Congress, nor any visiting Dignitary, shall ever set Foot in any of these Rooms, unless doing so as a Member of the General Public. Nor shall any Member of the President's Family do so, unless in an Emergency in order to retrieve, for example, the Presidential Dog."
On any given day, there are throngs of people from the general public lined up to view these rooms, which include the Green Room, Blue Room, Red Room, Purple Room, Striped Room, Polka-Dot Room, the Multipurpose Room, the Multitasking Multipurpose Room, the Room Decorated by the Cat in Residence, etc. You can tell that these rooms have no actual governmental function because during tours they are staffed by "Secret Service" persons, who are obviously not true Secret Service because they do not wear dark glasses. They ARE, however, equipped with little earpieces, from which they receive top-secret governmental information, such as "bottom of the ninth, two outs, and Fernandez is up..."
Before entering these rooms, visitors are led along a corridor featuring photos of various presidents through the years. These photos also prominently feature presidential pets, who are often remembered fondly by visitors, even when their owners are somewhat difficult to remember. "Look, here's Him and Her! They were such cute beagles. Let's see, who was president then...Nixon? Ford?" "No, no, I'm sure it was earlier -- it was...him and..her..."
Some visitors are lucky enough to get a glimpse, as we did, of important members of the First Family during their tour. In our case it was the presidential dogs, Bo and Sunny, who made an appearance, albeit brief. The dogs were gracious but did not, following years of protocol, offer autographs.
The "Secret Service" people are full of interesting tidbits of information, such as that the room heavily decorated in green tones is known as the Green Room, or that the many pieces of furniture with eagles on them are from Teddy Roosevelt's era. ("He liked eagles," the Secret Service man offered. They certainly know their stuff, those Secret Service people.)
You will also learn, as a visitor, the number of rooms in the house (132), the number of fireplaces (28), and most important, the number of bathrooms (35). Visitors, of course, never see ANY bathrooms, they having not yet been invented when the idea for the Visitor Wing was conceived.
Despite this shortcoming, the tour is very informative and not to be missed. Of course, you could see much the same things on a virtual tour of the White House online. Maybe even a bathroom.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Frisbee as a contact sport
Many relationship experts recommend that couples participate in various leisure activities, even sports, together. The Hero and I try to do this, although perhaps Rearranging Cars in the Parking Lot is not quite the sort of bonding activity the relationship experts have in mind.
Following a few incidences this summer, the Hero has put more of a premium on activities that are safe. Safe for HIM. Safe for him from ME. There was, for instance, the incident of the guillotine Frisbee. To say that I am not very good at Frisbee golf would be to insult giant tortoises everywhere, who would surely be better at it than I. Anyone observing my strategy would conclude that it is this:
1. Locate basket into which Frisbee is intended to land.
2. Do several warm-up swings to get comfortable with the force needed and proper direction.
3. Throw Frisbee in any direction but where the basket is located.
4. Retrieve Frisbee from bushes, swamp, or clump of poison ivy where it has landed.
5. Repeat steps 1-4 until Frisbee has successfully landed in basket or Frisbee partner gives up and heads for home, whichever comes first.
The Hero is very good-natured about this process, even when his patient attempts to help me improve meet with very little success. He has learned to set modest goals for me ("The basket's about 100 yards that way, but aim for that patch of grass two feet away"), and to praise me for small successes ("It hit the rock instead of going into the stream! Great!").
But neither of us was prepared for just how dangerous I could be, until on one hole I aimed straight uphill, gave the Frisbee a mighty heave, and sent it rocketing 180 degrees to my right. It just missed the Hero's head.
A few weeks earlier, my Frisbee had headed right for a friend's leg, striking it rather violently, although it did not cause any major damage. Given that incident, and now the Hero's near limb malfunction, probably my Frisbee privileges should have been revoked on the spot. But after a few words of understanding from the equanimous Hero ("Never do that again"), we decided that perhaps it would be prudent to leave the course while we still had all our limbs intact and did not require advanced medical care. And while we could still remember how to get back to our car, as the designers of this course seemed to have done their best to make directionally challenged people even more directionally challenged.
We enthusiastically told some friends -- one of whom suffered that ill-advised Frisbee blow of mine to her leg -- about this new course that we'd found, and suggested we all go sometime. They were equally enthusiastic. Maybe this time, in the interest of public safety, I'll just throw my Frisbee in a thick patch of briars and leave it there. Better yet, I'll AIM for the thick patch of briars, and maybe it will actually go toward the basket.
Following a few incidences this summer, the Hero has put more of a premium on activities that are safe. Safe for HIM. Safe for him from ME. There was, for instance, the incident of the guillotine Frisbee. To say that I am not very good at Frisbee golf would be to insult giant tortoises everywhere, who would surely be better at it than I. Anyone observing my strategy would conclude that it is this:
1. Locate basket into which Frisbee is intended to land.
2. Do several warm-up swings to get comfortable with the force needed and proper direction.
3. Throw Frisbee in any direction but where the basket is located.
4. Retrieve Frisbee from bushes, swamp, or clump of poison ivy where it has landed.
5. Repeat steps 1-4 until Frisbee has successfully landed in basket or Frisbee partner gives up and heads for home, whichever comes first.
The Hero is very good-natured about this process, even when his patient attempts to help me improve meet with very little success. He has learned to set modest goals for me ("The basket's about 100 yards that way, but aim for that patch of grass two feet away"), and to praise me for small successes ("It hit the rock instead of going into the stream! Great!").
But neither of us was prepared for just how dangerous I could be, until on one hole I aimed straight uphill, gave the Frisbee a mighty heave, and sent it rocketing 180 degrees to my right. It just missed the Hero's head.
A few weeks earlier, my Frisbee had headed right for a friend's leg, striking it rather violently, although it did not cause any major damage. Given that incident, and now the Hero's near limb malfunction, probably my Frisbee privileges should have been revoked on the spot. But after a few words of understanding from the equanimous Hero ("Never do that again"), we decided that perhaps it would be prudent to leave the course while we still had all our limbs intact and did not require advanced medical care. And while we could still remember how to get back to our car, as the designers of this course seemed to have done their best to make directionally challenged people even more directionally challenged.
We enthusiastically told some friends -- one of whom suffered that ill-advised Frisbee blow of mine to her leg -- about this new course that we'd found, and suggested we all go sometime. They were equally enthusiastic. Maybe this time, in the interest of public safety, I'll just throw my Frisbee in a thick patch of briars and leave it there. Better yet, I'll AIM for the thick patch of briars, and maybe it will actually go toward the basket.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Return of the perm
"Any day now," my hair stylist said. "The perm has been out for a long time. But it's coming back. Everything comes back eventually."
Except, I fervently hope, the feathered bangs of the 80s, the fashion-challenged decade in so many ways. I myself subscribed to the feathered bang look for several years. And that is all that ever needs to be said about it.
"I would LOVE for the perm to come back," a friend said when I told her my stylist's prognostications. "My hair needs all the body it can get."
So had I also thought, very long ago. On the scale of hair "body," my natural hair rated -57, slightly above jellyfish. So a perm that could boost me up to, say, 1? Bring it on.
Had the procedure come with an instruction manual, with a title such as "What to do with your hair after alien hair has invaded," there may have been a chance for it to look normal. But with no understanding of poofy, curly, enormous hair -- and wasn't that what we thought we wanted when we got a perm? -- I resembled some sort of poodle hybrid that hadn't yet been created. A poodle that was disinclined to be tamed, and demanded servitude.
When my enslavement to the perm finally ended, my hair landed in the clutches of yet another exacting master: the curling iron. Eventually it convinced me I was nothing without its waves, its curls, its body-giving properties. I was chained. Whither I went, it went.
The day I threw off that yoke was a day to celebrate. So when my stylist suggested recently that I could rid myself of a pesky backwards curl on the ends of my hair with a flat iron, the apostle Paul's wise words flashed in my mind: "Be not entangled again with the yoke of the curling -- or flat -- iron."
So while I may be safe from that particular trap, I HAVE become entangled again with the yoke of the Velcro rollers, another contraption I had given up but had neglected to purge from my possession, setting the stage for its re-entanglement in my hair's affairs. In the midst of this bondage, I yearn to be free once more.
I am waiting now for my stylist to say that fine, thin, straight hair, with bangs, is in. Limp hair. Jellyfish hair. Hair with absolutely NO body. And THAT will truly be a day of freedom.
Except, I fervently hope, the feathered bangs of the 80s, the fashion-challenged decade in so many ways. I myself subscribed to the feathered bang look for several years. And that is all that ever needs to be said about it.
"I would LOVE for the perm to come back," a friend said when I told her my stylist's prognostications. "My hair needs all the body it can get."
So had I also thought, very long ago. On the scale of hair "body," my natural hair rated -57, slightly above jellyfish. So a perm that could boost me up to, say, 1? Bring it on.
Had the procedure come with an instruction manual, with a title such as "What to do with your hair after alien hair has invaded," there may have been a chance for it to look normal. But with no understanding of poofy, curly, enormous hair -- and wasn't that what we thought we wanted when we got a perm? -- I resembled some sort of poodle hybrid that hadn't yet been created. A poodle that was disinclined to be tamed, and demanded servitude.
When my enslavement to the perm finally ended, my hair landed in the clutches of yet another exacting master: the curling iron. Eventually it convinced me I was nothing without its waves, its curls, its body-giving properties. I was chained. Whither I went, it went.
The day I threw off that yoke was a day to celebrate. So when my stylist suggested recently that I could rid myself of a pesky backwards curl on the ends of my hair with a flat iron, the apostle Paul's wise words flashed in my mind: "Be not entangled again with the yoke of the curling -- or flat -- iron."
So while I may be safe from that particular trap, I HAVE become entangled again with the yoke of the Velcro rollers, another contraption I had given up but had neglected to purge from my possession, setting the stage for its re-entanglement in my hair's affairs. In the midst of this bondage, I yearn to be free once more.
I am waiting now for my stylist to say that fine, thin, straight hair, with bangs, is in. Limp hair. Jellyfish hair. Hair with absolutely NO body. And THAT will truly be a day of freedom.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Music Fest
The Hero recently suggested we attend the Music Fest in our town. He wasn't sure exactly what it would feature, but made a wild guess that there would be some bands. With this assurance we walked into town, where we discovered that the music fest consisted largely of several unsigned bands that had either 1) lost their hearing entirely or 2) believed that their audience members were no longer in possession of THEIR hearing, or possibly 3) felt strongly that residents within 70 miles should be able to hear the music without having to leave their homes.
In addition to a single volume level, the bands appeared fond of one particular tempo: "frenzy," which literally means "to perform an activity until one's hair falls out." They played at frenzy level continually, stopping only to try to retrieve some of those hairs in between songs.
We did get a bit of a break occasionally in the form of bands consisting entirely of kids. They were like a miniature replica of the adult bands. Their stage was little. Their instruments were little. And they were little. The sound they produced could not quite be called little, but they seemed concerned only about reaching residents within five miles rather than 70.
So the official schedule that was posted looked something like this:
3:45 Band Playing Very Loud Music
4:20 Youth Band with Very Short Musicians
4:45 Another Band Playing Very Loud Music
5:20 Another youth Band with Very Short Musicians
5:45 Band Playing...Yes, Very Loud Music
Yet a third Youth Band with Very Short Musicians was, sadly, canceled due to the lead singer being "home puking his guts out," according to the manager.
Our own schedule was slightly different:
3:42 Arrive and stand in line for beverages
4:06 Sip beverages and look for anyone we know
4:14 Talk about people we don't know
4:39 Make adoring comments about cute puppies and toddlers
4:57 Make disparaging comments about owners of dogs in tutus
5:11 Study oddly dressed vendor
5:18 Stand in line for more beverages
5:36 Stand in line for food
5:59 Determine that oddly dressed vendor is an Ewok
6:04 Watch young woman dance to music with Hula Hoop
6:17 Glimpse a Dalmatian wearing sunglasses
6:18 Determine not to stand in line for any more beverages
Though we came away with possibly fewer hearing cells intact, we decided it was worth it. There is talk of this being an annual event, and we have already decided what they should feature next year. We want to see the sunglasses-wearing Dalmatian play bass guitar, with all proceeds going to a fund for emotional support for canine tutu wearers.
In addition to a single volume level, the bands appeared fond of one particular tempo: "frenzy," which literally means "to perform an activity until one's hair falls out." They played at frenzy level continually, stopping only to try to retrieve some of those hairs in between songs.
We did get a bit of a break occasionally in the form of bands consisting entirely of kids. They were like a miniature replica of the adult bands. Their stage was little. Their instruments were little. And they were little. The sound they produced could not quite be called little, but they seemed concerned only about reaching residents within five miles rather than 70.
So the official schedule that was posted looked something like this:
3:45 Band Playing Very Loud Music
4:20 Youth Band with Very Short Musicians
4:45 Another Band Playing Very Loud Music
5:20 Another youth Band with Very Short Musicians
5:45 Band Playing...Yes, Very Loud Music
Yet a third Youth Band with Very Short Musicians was, sadly, canceled due to the lead singer being "home puking his guts out," according to the manager.
Our own schedule was slightly different:
3:42 Arrive and stand in line for beverages
4:06 Sip beverages and look for anyone we know
4:14 Talk about people we don't know
4:39 Make adoring comments about cute puppies and toddlers
4:57 Make disparaging comments about owners of dogs in tutus
5:11 Study oddly dressed vendor
5:18 Stand in line for more beverages
5:36 Stand in line for food
5:59 Determine that oddly dressed vendor is an Ewok
6:04 Watch young woman dance to music with Hula Hoop
6:17 Glimpse a Dalmatian wearing sunglasses
6:18 Determine not to stand in line for any more beverages
Though we came away with possibly fewer hearing cells intact, we decided it was worth it. There is talk of this being an annual event, and we have already decided what they should feature next year. We want to see the sunglasses-wearing Dalmatian play bass guitar, with all proceeds going to a fund for emotional support for canine tutu wearers.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
A career in children's magazines?
The other day in the mail we received a packet of items designed to entice us to subscribe to one of my favorite childhood magazines. It is an interesting development in the solicitations we receive. When we were first married, we received a great deal of advertisements for local nursing home services. Perhaps having finally realized we are not in need of eldercare services quite yet, advertisers have decided to explore whether we are at the other end of the continuum, raising small children.
The Hero, not being familiar with this particular periodical -- his childhood interest in reading ran more to the likes of comic books -- asked what I recalled about the magazine from my early days. Two things, I said: Hidden Pictures, and Goofus and Gallant.
The Hidden Pictures feature was just what the name suggests -- pictures of items hidden in a picture that you searched for and, when located, circled with a bright red crayon so as to ruin the search for future readers. Since at the time no one else in my house was under the age of 15, this did not cause much of a problem. But it was extremely annoying when one picked up a crayoned copy at the doctor's or dentist's office.
But Goofus and Gallant was far more compelling, because it was Very Moral. The boys were characters in a strip, and in any given situation Gallant would undoubtedly embark on the right, polite, or otherwise socially accepted course of action, while Goofus never failed to cause gasps of moral outrage with his rude behavior.
It was very satisfying to despise Goofus. Unless one tended to BE like Goofus; then it was very satisfying to despise Gallant.
It is unclear from the advertisement whether Goofus and Gallant remain part of the magazine. But it is unlikely, as Goofus probably long ago sued the magazine for misrepresentation and emotional damages. Clearly, with his background he would have had a difficult time building a successful career as an adult; what employer would have trusted him? Even CEO Gallant (because you just knew Gallant would grow up to be CEO of something someday) would hardly have hired him given their shared history.
"Goofus, Goofus," Gallant would say, shaking his head, "you KNOW you never follow through on anything." And it was true. In the strip, Goofus's mother could ask him a hundred times to put away his socks, but he never did. Could such an individual be relied upon to keep expenses within budget and turn in a coherent annual report?
Another change is that the single magazine is now three magazines, one for babies and toddlers, one for preschoolers and primary age, and one for older school-age kids. According to rumors, the company is also considering targeting other groups, including prenatal babies and perhaps pets.
Strangely, this packet of materials was addressed to the Hero, not me. He denies any knowledge of how he may have appeared on their mailing list. But even though he was not privileged to glean from its and wisdom in his younger days, he saw the potential in it immediately -- particularly for babies, who are generally a hard sell when it comes to magazines.*
For example, the letter in the packet reprinted a poem from one issue of the baby and toddler magazine that went something like this:
I cuddle like a bug
As I share a warm hug
In the big soft chair.
Later in the day
My friends and I will play
In the big soft chair.
The Hero, getting into the rhythm of the poem, added his own verse:
Then as bedtime draws near
I'll have a nice cold beer,
And fall asleep in the big soft chair.**
It seems safe to say that his future career at a children's magazine might be over before it starts.
Yet his ideas were not exhausted with the poetry. Moving on to articles that might be helpful to babies, he came up with the following title possibilities:
"How's that cry working out for you? Need to jazz it up? 5 steps to more effective crying (counting ability not necessary)"
"No one paying attention to you? How to poop to greater effect"
"You found your mouth...what's next? Body parts for beginners"
On second thought, there is an audience for almost everything. The Hero may very well find his, perhaps among new fathers short on sleep.
____________
* This is due to their short attention span, which makes it difficult for them to listen to advertising pitches. And the fact that they haven't quite mastered paying by credit card yet. But the iPhone 6 may change this latter shortcoming.
** The Hero does not necessarily advocate engaging in this behavior, particularly at the tender age of 1.
The Hero, not being familiar with this particular periodical -- his childhood interest in reading ran more to the likes of comic books -- asked what I recalled about the magazine from my early days. Two things, I said: Hidden Pictures, and Goofus and Gallant.
The Hidden Pictures feature was just what the name suggests -- pictures of items hidden in a picture that you searched for and, when located, circled with a bright red crayon so as to ruin the search for future readers. Since at the time no one else in my house was under the age of 15, this did not cause much of a problem. But it was extremely annoying when one picked up a crayoned copy at the doctor's or dentist's office.
But Goofus and Gallant was far more compelling, because it was Very Moral. The boys were characters in a strip, and in any given situation Gallant would undoubtedly embark on the right, polite, or otherwise socially accepted course of action, while Goofus never failed to cause gasps of moral outrage with his rude behavior.
It was very satisfying to despise Goofus. Unless one tended to BE like Goofus; then it was very satisfying to despise Gallant.
It is unclear from the advertisement whether Goofus and Gallant remain part of the magazine. But it is unlikely, as Goofus probably long ago sued the magazine for misrepresentation and emotional damages. Clearly, with his background he would have had a difficult time building a successful career as an adult; what employer would have trusted him? Even CEO Gallant (because you just knew Gallant would grow up to be CEO of something someday) would hardly have hired him given their shared history.
"Goofus, Goofus," Gallant would say, shaking his head, "you KNOW you never follow through on anything." And it was true. In the strip, Goofus's mother could ask him a hundred times to put away his socks, but he never did. Could such an individual be relied upon to keep expenses within budget and turn in a coherent annual report?
Another change is that the single magazine is now three magazines, one for babies and toddlers, one for preschoolers and primary age, and one for older school-age kids. According to rumors, the company is also considering targeting other groups, including prenatal babies and perhaps pets.
Strangely, this packet of materials was addressed to the Hero, not me. He denies any knowledge of how he may have appeared on their mailing list. But even though he was not privileged to glean from its and wisdom in his younger days, he saw the potential in it immediately -- particularly for babies, who are generally a hard sell when it comes to magazines.*
For example, the letter in the packet reprinted a poem from one issue of the baby and toddler magazine that went something like this:
I cuddle like a bug
As I share a warm hug
In the big soft chair.
Later in the day
My friends and I will play
In the big soft chair.
The Hero, getting into the rhythm of the poem, added his own verse:
Then as bedtime draws near
I'll have a nice cold beer,
And fall asleep in the big soft chair.**
It seems safe to say that his future career at a children's magazine might be over before it starts.
Yet his ideas were not exhausted with the poetry. Moving on to articles that might be helpful to babies, he came up with the following title possibilities:
"How's that cry working out for you? Need to jazz it up? 5 steps to more effective crying (counting ability not necessary)"
"No one paying attention to you? How to poop to greater effect"
"You found your mouth...what's next? Body parts for beginners"
On second thought, there is an audience for almost everything. The Hero may very well find his, perhaps among new fathers short on sleep.
____________
* This is due to their short attention span, which makes it difficult for them to listen to advertising pitches. And the fact that they haven't quite mastered paying by credit card yet. But the iPhone 6 may change this latter shortcoming.
** The Hero does not necessarily advocate engaging in this behavior, particularly at the tender age of 1.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Where there's fire, there's creme brulee
I'm sure that of all the statements the Hero ever expected might emerge from my mouth, "Honey, I need a blowtorch" is not one of them.
And yet a blowtorch is crucial to my culinary happiness. Just as the immersion blender enabled me to make luxurious cream soups, and the salad spinner ensured that we would actually eat all those crisp, healthy greens we are supplied with, so now, from the glossy pages of a cookbook, a creme brûlée calls out to me that I, too, can enjoy its magical goodness -- IF I have a blowtorch.
To become creme brûlée (which literally means burnt cream, but for obvious reasons is called creme brûlée), the dish of cream, sugar, more eggs and sugar, sugar, vanilla or other flavoring, and unbelievable amounts of eggs and sugar, plus a little extra for good measure, must be set aflame, on purpose.
Enter the blowtorch. When applied to the top of the creation, it creates a chemical reaction that results, eventually, in the fire department coming to your home.
This suggests a modification alarm companies might make to their equipment. A special alert indicating "creme brûlée fire!" would let authorities know that there is no actual fire and thus no need for them to show up with hose trucks or any other kind of trucks. Upon hearing this special signal, the firefighters would say something like:
"Oh, it's just the Johnsons making creme brûlée again. What's that make, the third time this month?"
"Hey, maybe they DO need some help -- eating all of it."
And they would go back to playing cards.
Of course there is an alternative way to achieve the crunchy, sweet goodness on top of the creme brûlée: put it under the broiler. But this is for wussies, even if the directions DO say to be careful. All the danger, all the excitement is happening INSIDE the oven, where I can't be a part of it. And I WANT to be a part of it. With a blowtorch, I alone would be responsible for causing whatever chemical reactions are occurring. Of course, I would also be responsible for any damage to the kitchen or my person, which might be considerable.
It is this latter point that gives the Hero pause when I mention my need for a blowtorch. And it is no doubt what will convince firefighters that even if the special "don't-worry-it's-just-a-
And yet a blowtorch is crucial to my culinary happiness. Just as the immersion blender enabled me to make luxurious cream soups, and the salad spinner ensured that we would actually eat all those crisp, healthy greens we are supplied with, so now, from the glossy pages of a cookbook, a creme brûlée calls out to me that I, too, can enjoy its magical goodness -- IF I have a blowtorch.
To become creme brûlée (which literally means burnt cream, but for obvious reasons is called creme brûlée), the dish of cream, sugar, more eggs and sugar, sugar, vanilla or other flavoring, and unbelievable amounts of eggs and sugar, plus a little extra for good measure, must be set aflame, on purpose.
Enter the blowtorch. When applied to the top of the creation, it creates a chemical reaction that results, eventually, in the fire department coming to your home.
This suggests a modification alarm companies might make to their equipment. A special alert indicating "creme brûlée fire!" would let authorities know that there is no actual fire and thus no need for them to show up with hose trucks or any other kind of trucks. Upon hearing this special signal, the firefighters would say something like:
"Oh, it's just the Johnsons making creme brûlée again. What's that make, the third time this month?"
"Hey, maybe they DO need some help -- eating all of it."
And they would go back to playing cards.
Of course there is an alternative way to achieve the crunchy, sweet goodness on top of the creme brûlée: put it under the broiler. But this is for wussies, even if the directions DO say to be careful. All the danger, all the excitement is happening INSIDE the oven, where I can't be a part of it. And I WANT to be a part of it. With a blowtorch, I alone would be responsible for causing whatever chemical reactions are occurring. Of course, I would also be responsible for any damage to the kitchen or my person, which might be considerable.
It is this latter point that gives the Hero pause when I mention my need for a blowtorch. And it is no doubt what will convince firefighters that even if the special "don't-worry-it's-just-a-
Monday, September 8, 2014
Five degrees of separation from the beach
A friend once declared that "there are five minutes in the life of a banana when it is suitable to be eaten." Likewise, I feel there is a five-degree range of temperature for which the beach is enjoyable. This is about 85-90 degrees. Below this threshold, it is, in my opinion, too chilly to enter the ocean waters. Above this range, the heat is so debilitating that one must summon all of one's resources simply to move off one's comfortable chaise lounge, drag one's parched and dehydrated body across the burning sands, and finally plop at the edge of the refreshing water, only to forget to close one's mouth before getting a mouthful of seawater.
Unfortunately the temperature on our recent beach visit fell well short of this acceptable range. The Hero, who feels that any weather short of visible icicles is suitable for ocean dipping -- and who also has NO discernible standards when it comes to banana eating -- went in without me.
But the weather was conducive to napping and also to bike riding, so we happily engaged in both activities, although not both at the same time. Bikes can be rather a difficult place to nap.
A prominent sign on the boardwalk declared that although bikes were permitted, this was true only until 10 a.m. After that, presumably, large, hairy individuals would materialize and bodily escort you and your bike -- separating one from the other if necessary -- off the boardwalk.
We did not want this to happen, so we behaved ourselves. Well, at least in regard to the magic hour of 10:00. I admit that at one point we attempted a rather daring move, in which I steered my bike with just one hand while handing over my hat to the Hero to place in his basket. This was daring because even two-handed, my bike-steering skills are roughly akin to those exhibited by small marsupials, were they to take up bike riding.
I would have pulled it off, though, had my bike not chosen that exact moment to show its affinity for the Hero's bike. We clanged into each other, and only quick-witted thinking on the Hero's part -- consisting of him thrusting me and my bike away -- saved us from complete disaster.
Under the sign on the boardwalk that said "Bikes permitted until 10 a.m.," we would not have been surprised to see another sign affixed to it declaring, "Except YOU TWO. You know who you are." And, yes, we would have known.
It also would not have been a surprise to see a large, hairy individual arrive to cast us off the boardwalk -- after he finished eating a very brown, way-beyond-the-five-minute-
Unfortunately the temperature on our recent beach visit fell well short of this acceptable range. The Hero, who feels that any weather short of visible icicles is suitable for ocean dipping -- and who also has NO discernible standards when it comes to banana eating -- went in without me.
But the weather was conducive to napping and also to bike riding, so we happily engaged in both activities, although not both at the same time. Bikes can be rather a difficult place to nap.
A prominent sign on the boardwalk declared that although bikes were permitted, this was true only until 10 a.m. After that, presumably, large, hairy individuals would materialize and bodily escort you and your bike -- separating one from the other if necessary -- off the boardwalk.
We did not want this to happen, so we behaved ourselves. Well, at least in regard to the magic hour of 10:00. I admit that at one point we attempted a rather daring move, in which I steered my bike with just one hand while handing over my hat to the Hero to place in his basket. This was daring because even two-handed, my bike-steering skills are roughly akin to those exhibited by small marsupials, were they to take up bike riding.
I would have pulled it off, though, had my bike not chosen that exact moment to show its affinity for the Hero's bike. We clanged into each other, and only quick-witted thinking on the Hero's part -- consisting of him thrusting me and my bike away -- saved us from complete disaster.
Under the sign on the boardwalk that said "Bikes permitted until 10 a.m.," we would not have been surprised to see another sign affixed to it declaring, "Except YOU TWO. You know who you are." And, yes, we would have known.
It also would not have been a surprise to see a large, hairy individual arrive to cast us off the boardwalk -- after he finished eating a very brown, way-beyond-the-five-minute-
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
May I please have this faux pas?
Ever since the Hero and I took ballroom dancing lessons a few years ago, he has been on the lookout for both place and opportunity to practice our budding skills. By "practice" I mean "expose our ineptitude to the world."
We took these lessons thanks to Groupon, which is a service that, by offering deeply discounted coupons to gazillions of people, emboldens those people to do inadvisable things like take dance lessons even when their talent for dancing is less than zero.
The great thing about Groupon, though, is that even if you have a terrible experience at whatever you're using the coupon for, at least you didn't pay full price. So perhaps you got food poisoning at a restaurant or broke your leg skeet shooting, but hey, it could have cost a lot more.
The dance lessons, however, turned out to be a very nice experience. We actually learned several things about dancing, most of which I promptly forgot, but we did remember the most important thing: Once our lessons ended, we should never, ever try dancing in public again.
At least, that is what I remember from the experience. But the Hero has insisted, ever since, that we should keep up our skills, and that it would be fun to go somewhere on a special occasion and kick up our heels. And try not to cause anyone bodily harm.
A fine opportunity to embarrass ourselves came on our recent trip to the beach, where we ate lunch across the street from the town's Convention Hall one day. A sign above the door flashed all the upcoming events, like "Off-Season Subpar Band I, Off-Season Subpar Band II," etc. The Hero, studying the messages intently (possibly hoping to see the screen flash "Musician needed immediately to fill in on keyboards for Aug. 30. Prefer Maryland male, 40s, who is also a whiz computer guy"), suddenly said, "Hey, they have ballroom dancing! Tonight!"
I was pretty sure I was going to be unwell that night, and said so, but the Hero was resolute.
"I'm sure there'll be a dress code," I said.
"Let's go over and check it out," he said.
We did, and asked the woman behind the counter if there was a dress code for the dancing. She assured us there was not. Was she deliberately ignoring the vigorous nodding of my head as I stood behind the Hero? It was hard to tell.
We came back promptly at 9:00 that night, and promptly panicked. Well, the Hero panicked. I had been practicing panicking since the moment we'd -- he'd -- decided to come, so I was in good shape as far as panicking.
Everyone else knew each other. They chatted about how this was the last session of the summer. They had all been doing this, together, the whole summer.
When the first dance began, neither of us moved, even though it was a foxtrot, a dance we know. The second dance was also a foxtrot, and still we sat unmoving.
But when the third dance was imminent, the Hero reached over to pry me from my death grip on the chair. And then the DJ announced that this would be a salsa.
We looked at each other, stunned. We didn't know the salsa. In fact, thanks to the limits of the Groupon we had used, we knew only two dances.* Had we really thought there would be only foxtrots and waltzes all evening?**
We sat out the next dance, too, which was a swing. I began to relax. Maybe we'll just sit here and watch all night, I thought.
But finally a waltz came, and away we went. While the other couples swirled around the room, we stayed in our neat little box, as we had been taught. Occasionally we switched it up to the point where we traveled a foot or two and made another little box. Up and down the left side of the room, we established a series of little boxes and waltzed them to death.
The band seemed to catch on that we didn't know much beyond the waltz, and they -- quick-thinking as they were -- played several other dances after that, none of which we knew Then a foxtrot came, and we were on our feet again, ready to take this song by storm.
Except that we couldn't quite sort out the foxtrot steps from the waltz steps, and settled for something we shall call the waltztrot. It resembled those scenes in comic films where two people politely try to get around each other but keep trying to occupy the same space at the same time. We even tried -- though this was not on purpose -- to occupy the same space as some of the other couples. This effort was not successful.
Thankfully, modern technology came to our rescue. The band mercifully took a break, and the Hero and I frantically Googled "foxtrot steps for Dummies." There we learned that we had been forgetting that the steps are "slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, slow, quick, quick," etc.
Our memories refreshed, we tried again when the next foxtrot was played -- the band must have forgotten during the break that this was one we would attempt -- but kept missing one particular step. Instead of "slow, slow, quick, quick," our sequence was more "slow, slow, oof, ouch, slow, slow..."
"Your right foot has to move back, not forward," I said. Unfortunately I said this while looking down, and the Hero responded by looking down, and to accompany our dance steps we added "BONK, ow!" mid-sequence.
We never did make it to the other side of the room, although once we flirted dangerously with the middle. We gradually noticed, however, that there were only a few couples on the floor, leaving us rather conspicuously out in the open, whereupon we hastily waltztrotted back to the safety of our original box.
No one spoke to us for most of the evening, for which we could not blame them. We probably wouldn't have either if we hadn't been us. One couple did come to sit at our table toward the end of the evening. "They probably drew the short straw," I whispered to the Hero as we saw them approach. "Everyone must have drawn straws to see who would be the unlucky ones to come over and see why we thought it was a good idea to come here tonight."
Eventually the misery ended -- here I am speaking of the misery everyone else endured while watching us -- and we left hurriedly.
And, fortunately, managed not to trip down the stairs on our way out.
___________
*Actually, as we would discover later in the evening, we were wrong about this. We knew only ONE dance.
**Yes, apparently we had.
We took these lessons thanks to Groupon, which is a service that, by offering deeply discounted coupons to gazillions of people, emboldens those people to do inadvisable things like take dance lessons even when their talent for dancing is less than zero.
The great thing about Groupon, though, is that even if you have a terrible experience at whatever you're using the coupon for, at least you didn't pay full price. So perhaps you got food poisoning at a restaurant or broke your leg skeet shooting, but hey, it could have cost a lot more.
The dance lessons, however, turned out to be a very nice experience. We actually learned several things about dancing, most of which I promptly forgot, but we did remember the most important thing: Once our lessons ended, we should never, ever try dancing in public again.
At least, that is what I remember from the experience. But the Hero has insisted, ever since, that we should keep up our skills, and that it would be fun to go somewhere on a special occasion and kick up our heels. And try not to cause anyone bodily harm.
A fine opportunity to embarrass ourselves came on our recent trip to the beach, where we ate lunch across the street from the town's Convention Hall one day. A sign above the door flashed all the upcoming events, like "Off-Season Subpar Band I, Off-Season Subpar Band II," etc. The Hero, studying the messages intently (possibly hoping to see the screen flash "Musician needed immediately to fill in on keyboards for Aug. 30. Prefer Maryland male, 40s, who is also a whiz computer guy"), suddenly said, "Hey, they have ballroom dancing! Tonight!"
I was pretty sure I was going to be unwell that night, and said so, but the Hero was resolute.
"I'm sure there'll be a dress code," I said.
"Let's go over and check it out," he said.
We did, and asked the woman behind the counter if there was a dress code for the dancing. She assured us there was not. Was she deliberately ignoring the vigorous nodding of my head as I stood behind the Hero? It was hard to tell.
We came back promptly at 9:00 that night, and promptly panicked. Well, the Hero panicked. I had been practicing panicking since the moment we'd -- he'd -- decided to come, so I was in good shape as far as panicking.
Everyone else knew each other. They chatted about how this was the last session of the summer. They had all been doing this, together, the whole summer.
When the first dance began, neither of us moved, even though it was a foxtrot, a dance we know. The second dance was also a foxtrot, and still we sat unmoving.
But when the third dance was imminent, the Hero reached over to pry me from my death grip on the chair. And then the DJ announced that this would be a salsa.
We looked at each other, stunned. We didn't know the salsa. In fact, thanks to the limits of the Groupon we had used, we knew only two dances.* Had we really thought there would be only foxtrots and waltzes all evening?**
We sat out the next dance, too, which was a swing. I began to relax. Maybe we'll just sit here and watch all night, I thought.
But finally a waltz came, and away we went. While the other couples swirled around the room, we stayed in our neat little box, as we had been taught. Occasionally we switched it up to the point where we traveled a foot or two and made another little box. Up and down the left side of the room, we established a series of little boxes and waltzed them to death.
The band seemed to catch on that we didn't know much beyond the waltz, and they -- quick-thinking as they were -- played several other dances after that, none of which we knew Then a foxtrot came, and we were on our feet again, ready to take this song by storm.
Except that we couldn't quite sort out the foxtrot steps from the waltz steps, and settled for something we shall call the waltztrot. It resembled those scenes in comic films where two people politely try to get around each other but keep trying to occupy the same space at the same time. We even tried -- though this was not on purpose -- to occupy the same space as some of the other couples. This effort was not successful.
Thankfully, modern technology came to our rescue. The band mercifully took a break, and the Hero and I frantically Googled "foxtrot steps for Dummies." There we learned that we had been forgetting that the steps are "slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, slow, quick, quick," etc.
Our memories refreshed, we tried again when the next foxtrot was played -- the band must have forgotten during the break that this was one we would attempt -- but kept missing one particular step. Instead of "slow, slow, quick, quick," our sequence was more "slow, slow, oof, ouch, slow, slow..."
"Your right foot has to move back, not forward," I said. Unfortunately I said this while looking down, and the Hero responded by looking down, and to accompany our dance steps we added "BONK, ow!" mid-sequence.
We never did make it to the other side of the room, although once we flirted dangerously with the middle. We gradually noticed, however, that there were only a few couples on the floor, leaving us rather conspicuously out in the open, whereupon we hastily waltztrotted back to the safety of our original box.
No one spoke to us for most of the evening, for which we could not blame them. We probably wouldn't have either if we hadn't been us. One couple did come to sit at our table toward the end of the evening. "They probably drew the short straw," I whispered to the Hero as we saw them approach. "Everyone must have drawn straws to see who would be the unlucky ones to come over and see why we thought it was a good idea to come here tonight."
Eventually the misery ended -- here I am speaking of the misery everyone else endured while watching us -- and we left hurriedly.
And, fortunately, managed not to trip down the stairs on our way out.
___________
*Actually, as we would discover later in the evening, we were wrong about this. We knew only ONE dance.
**Yes, apparently we had.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Ode to the eggplant
For a long time people were afraid to eat eggplant, as it is a member of the nightshade family and was considered poisonous. It is unclear HOW people back then knew it was a member of the nightshade family, as it no more resembles a tomato or other nightshade plants than does a seahorse, and it's not like plants go around advertising their family relationships.
Personally I think it would have been for the best to leave things at that as far as the eggplant is concerned, and to go on thinking it was too dangerous to attempt to eat it. Our CSA clearly believes otherwise, judging from the continual stream of eggplant they keep sneaking into our weekly basket, like a parent sneaking vegetables into her children's muffins. Both are probably punishable offenses.
Much of our late summer has been spent desperately trying to find a way to cook eggplant so that its texture is more like actual food than worn rubber tires. As part of this effort, eggplant has been roasted, grilled, breaded and fried, cut up in small pieces and hidden among other, less tire-like vegetables, smothered in cheese, smothered in chocolate, and deliberately abandoned in the bottom of the vegetable bin in the fridge. ("Oh, look, it's too far gone to eat now. Too bad.")
We were ready to make a formal request to the appropriate scientific body that eggplant be removed from the nightshade family and placed in the rubber plant family. It could, perhaps, live a long and fruitful life as playground surfacing material ("Fewer injuries with poured eggplant!").
But then a friend, taking pity on our eggplant despair, insisted I try a recipe for eggplant tomato purée for pasta. She herself made it "way too often." I immediately recognized the possibilities in roasting an eggplant and tomatoes, pureeing them together beyond recognition, and mixing it all with a ridiculous amount of red pepper flakes, Parmesan, and noodles. Excellent. No evidence to suggest that there had ever BEEN an eggplant, except a tiny stray remnant of peel here and there.
The eggplant kept coming from the CSA, and the puree followed. It doubled as a cracker dip, went to all our social gatherings, filled up our freezer. Its popularity soared. And then, somehow, there didn't seem to be as many social gatherings to which to take the eggplant purée. Odd.
But there is no foreseeable end to the eggplant. It is in season until October. Clearly, it is time for a different way to deal with the next eggplant to appear in our basket, so we have determined to use it in a time-honored fashion: put it on someone's porch, knock on the door, and run like crazy.
Personally I think it would have been for the best to leave things at that as far as the eggplant is concerned, and to go on thinking it was too dangerous to attempt to eat it. Our CSA clearly believes otherwise, judging from the continual stream of eggplant they keep sneaking into our weekly basket, like a parent sneaking vegetables into her children's muffins. Both are probably punishable offenses.
Much of our late summer has been spent desperately trying to find a way to cook eggplant so that its texture is more like actual food than worn rubber tires. As part of this effort, eggplant has been roasted, grilled, breaded and fried, cut up in small pieces and hidden among other, less tire-like vegetables, smothered in cheese, smothered in chocolate, and deliberately abandoned in the bottom of the vegetable bin in the fridge. ("Oh, look, it's too far gone to eat now. Too bad.")
We were ready to make a formal request to the appropriate scientific body that eggplant be removed from the nightshade family and placed in the rubber plant family. It could, perhaps, live a long and fruitful life as playground surfacing material ("Fewer injuries with poured eggplant!").
But then a friend, taking pity on our eggplant despair, insisted I try a recipe for eggplant tomato purée for pasta. She herself made it "way too often." I immediately recognized the possibilities in roasting an eggplant and tomatoes, pureeing them together beyond recognition, and mixing it all with a ridiculous amount of red pepper flakes, Parmesan, and noodles. Excellent. No evidence to suggest that there had ever BEEN an eggplant, except a tiny stray remnant of peel here and there.
The eggplant kept coming from the CSA, and the puree followed. It doubled as a cracker dip, went to all our social gatherings, filled up our freezer. Its popularity soared. And then, somehow, there didn't seem to be as many social gatherings to which to take the eggplant purée. Odd.
But there is no foreseeable end to the eggplant. It is in season until October. Clearly, it is time for a different way to deal with the next eggplant to appear in our basket, so we have determined to use it in a time-honored fashion: put it on someone's porch, knock on the door, and run like crazy.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Are you smarter than a Smart Meter?
In an apparent effort to trim costs, our local energy company has installed Smart Meters on many homes in the area, including ours. Smart meters give the company up-to-the-minute data on your energy usage and allow them to send personalized updates to let you know how much energy you are using. And how much energy your neighbors are using. And how much MORE energy you are using compared to your neighbors. And how ashamed this should make you.
It does make us ashamed. Ashamed that we didn't just say no to the Smart Meter.
Because knowing that our "most efficient neighbors" are using 51% less energy than we are has not made us look for ways to cut back. It has made us wonder who these people are. And what THEIR reports say. Possibly, "Congratulations! You are more efficient than the rest of your neighbors, who are all imbeciles with complete disregard for the Earth's resources. If we were you, we would definitely consider moving."
And we wonder, of course, which are the poor saps who are even less efficient than we are. And we gloat over them, whoever they are.
Another measure instituted by the energy company is special Energy-Saving Days. These are days selected at random from the days when energy demand is expected to be high, and if you consume less energy than usual on those days, you get ANOTHER report from the company. This one says, "Great job! You used 1% less energy on this day. Your account will be credited $.43 (minus federal, state, international, and intergalactic taxes and fees)".
The idea is that you, the homeowner and assumed energy hog, are informed IN ADVANCE of the special Energy-Saving Day and implement prudent, cost-cutting measures on that day, such as following your spouse and children around and turning off lights and faucets after they turn them on ("Hey, can't a person get more than four drops of water to drink??" "Tomorrow. Not today").
The problem is that the energy company does NOT tell you ahead of time exactly when the Energy-Saving Day will be, only that it will be "soon." We find out only in retrospect that it was, say, two weeks ago, on August 7. Any energy conservation measures taken that day, therefore, were a completely accidental occurrence. But at least we receive our 43-cent payback (minus federal, state, international, and intergalactic taxes and fees.
We are sure that more frequent, personal, and annoying messages are coming from the company in the near future. Perhaps the communication will be something like this:
Energy Company: We have observed that your energy usage has climbed 12% in the last month. Are you leaving more lights on than usual? -- Your friends at the energy company
Us: Hummph.
EC: You could have traveled to Liechtenstein with the money you would have saved if you were as efficient as your neighbors.
Us: Funny, we don't see any of THEM traveling to Liechtenstein.
EC: We noticed your lights flashing off and on at 2200 hours for 3 1/2 minutes yesterday. It was like some sort of signal...
Us: Darn right, Smart Meter. We were saying Leave us alone. At least 51% of the time.
It does make us ashamed. Ashamed that we didn't just say no to the Smart Meter.
Because knowing that our "most efficient neighbors" are using 51% less energy than we are has not made us look for ways to cut back. It has made us wonder who these people are. And what THEIR reports say. Possibly, "Congratulations! You are more efficient than the rest of your neighbors, who are all imbeciles with complete disregard for the Earth's resources. If we were you, we would definitely consider moving."
And we wonder, of course, which are the poor saps who are even less efficient than we are. And we gloat over them, whoever they are.
Another measure instituted by the energy company is special Energy-Saving Days. These are days selected at random from the days when energy demand is expected to be high, and if you consume less energy than usual on those days, you get ANOTHER report from the company. This one says, "Great job! You used 1% less energy on this day. Your account will be credited $.43 (minus federal, state, international, and intergalactic taxes and fees)".
The idea is that you, the homeowner and assumed energy hog, are informed IN ADVANCE of the special Energy-Saving Day and implement prudent, cost-cutting measures on that day, such as following your spouse and children around and turning off lights and faucets after they turn them on ("Hey, can't a person get more than four drops of water to drink??" "Tomorrow. Not today").
The problem is that the energy company does NOT tell you ahead of time exactly when the Energy-Saving Day will be, only that it will be "soon." We find out only in retrospect that it was, say, two weeks ago, on August 7. Any energy conservation measures taken that day, therefore, were a completely accidental occurrence. But at least we receive our 43-cent payback (minus federal, state, international, and intergalactic taxes and fees.
We are sure that more frequent, personal, and annoying messages are coming from the company in the near future. Perhaps the communication will be something like this:
Energy Company: We have observed that your energy usage has climbed 12% in the last month. Are you leaving more lights on than usual? -- Your friends at the energy company
Us: Hummph.
EC: You could have traveled to Liechtenstein with the money you would have saved if you were as efficient as your neighbors.
Us: Funny, we don't see any of THEM traveling to Liechtenstein.
EC: We noticed your lights flashing off and on at 2200 hours for 3 1/2 minutes yesterday. It was like some sort of signal...
Us: Darn right, Smart Meter. We were saying Leave us alone. At least 51% of the time.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Want more brain power? Get lost! Literally
Much is being made in education these days of "brain-based learning," which is the idea that teaching should reflect scientifically proven principles about how the brain works. This is in contrast to traditional teaching methods, which seem to assume that students' brains are pretty much asleep in school.*
These scientifically proven principles about how the brain works are:
1. We humans use our brain to learn things. Probably most of us at least SUSPECTED that maybe our brains were involved somehow in learning, but now brain scientists, using very expensive equipment that probes the brain regions while subjects are involved in learning a task, have pronounced definitively that yes, the brain does help us learn.**
2. The brain develops more learning capacity by making more neuronal connections. One way the brain accomplishes this is when you learn something new or try something different, like taking a new route to work. The brain cannot, in this case, rely on its old routes, and must forge new ones, making more synapses and building alliances and passing GO and collecting...
Ahem.
Of course, there is bad news as well.
3. If pathways in the brain are not used, they die off. This explains why, for example, some men can remember every detail about every football game in the last 937 seasons, but forget their children's names. Or even that they HAVE children.
Aware that too many of my personal brain pathways may already be dead-ends, in an effort to salvage what I still have I diligently set about one morning to follow a different route from the subway to work.
And promptly got lost.
Very lost.
My brain had to work very hard to figure out where it was supposed to be, much harder than I expected, and -- even though this is not addressed in the brain literature -- I believe I racked up some serious bonus points in my little Build-the-Neuron-Connections game.
In keeping with principle 2, I must practice my new behaviors over and over until the pathways become established. Then it's off to find a new behavior to make new pathways. So if you see a bewildered-looking female trudging around a city, it's just me, building neurons.
______
*Which has also been scientifically proven, at least for subjects other than recess.
**Most of us, anyway.
These scientifically proven principles about how the brain works are:
1. We humans use our brain to learn things. Probably most of us at least SUSPECTED that maybe our brains were involved somehow in learning, but now brain scientists, using very expensive equipment that probes the brain regions while subjects are involved in learning a task, have pronounced definitively that yes, the brain does help us learn.**
2. The brain develops more learning capacity by making more neuronal connections. One way the brain accomplishes this is when you learn something new or try something different, like taking a new route to work. The brain cannot, in this case, rely on its old routes, and must forge new ones, making more synapses and building alliances and passing GO and collecting...
Ahem.
Of course, there is bad news as well.
3. If pathways in the brain are not used, they die off. This explains why, for example, some men can remember every detail about every football game in the last 937 seasons, but forget their children's names. Or even that they HAVE children.
Aware that too many of my personal brain pathways may already be dead-ends, in an effort to salvage what I still have I diligently set about one morning to follow a different route from the subway to work.
And promptly got lost.
Very lost.
My brain had to work very hard to figure out where it was supposed to be, much harder than I expected, and -- even though this is not addressed in the brain literature -- I believe I racked up some serious bonus points in my little Build-the-Neuron-Connections game.
In keeping with principle 2, I must practice my new behaviors over and over until the pathways become established. Then it's off to find a new behavior to make new pathways. So if you see a bewildered-looking female trudging around a city, it's just me, building neurons.
______
*Which has also been scientifically proven, at least for subjects other than recess.
**Most of us, anyway.
Monday, August 4, 2014
It's a bear! It's a shadow! It's -- way too hot
In a normal summer here in the East, certain activities are to be avoided due to the debilitating heat and humidity. These include strenuous exercise, being outdoors in the middle of the day, getting up and going to work, remembering your name, etc.
But this summer has been much more comfortable than usual. Some friends therefore suggested we visit the zoo with them and their children, which is to be avoided on hot days, so we headed there on...what turned out to be the hottest day of the summer.
Basically, the people at the visitor's center told us, we should go see all the animals right away, because the animals are smart, and by 11:30 they would be comfortably holed up in their air-conditioned areas, whereas we would be left looking at empty enclosures and panting from the heat.
This sounded like a good plan to us. The air-conditioned part, I mean. Thus we spent 52 minutes closely studying the endangered Panamanian frog, which is a whopping 1.3 inches long and is capable of sitting still with no movement whatsoever for long periods of time (in our experience, at least 52 minutes), but which was nevertheless extremely interesting because it was in a section of the Amazonian building that had air conditioning.
Air conditioning, you might know from your knowledge of climates, is not typical of Amazonian weather in the wild. There the temperatures usually hover around 963 degrees and the humidity is like having it rain inside your sauna, only worse. And indeed, this atmosphere is re-created in most of the Amazonian building at the zoo, which keeps the animals happy but makes visitors a little testy. In recognition of this, the building designers put in a door off the main entrance that bypasses the entire steamy part of the exhibit, a fact that we regrettably did not discover until we had been in the steamy section so long we feared that, like the Panamanian frog, we would be next on the endangered list.
Scientists are studying why the Panamanian frog is disappearing at alarming rates in the wild, but it doesn't take a great brain to guess the reason. We can use these simple facts to discern the cause:
1. The frogs are disappearing from the Amazon, which as we have discussed is way hot.
2. They thrive when placed in the zoo's complimentary air-conditioned tanks.
Ergo, the frogs have been leaving the 963-degree weather in vast numbers (according to rumors, on chartered AirPanama flights) and heading for various zoos with air conditioning.
Now that that mystery is solved, we can start putting all the money currently going toward this issue into air-conditioning the rest of the zoo, including the entire outside.
Eventually we ran out of air-conditioned environments and were forced to stand outside to see some of the animals. A splendid male lion was sprawled among the rocks, probably pondering which of the visitors looked the most weakened from the sun and would be easy pickings. But of course we weren't too worried, because male lions do not kill prey themselves. They depend on the womenfolk to do it for them*, and Mrs. Lion was, as any other wise female would be on such a sultry day, no doubt at a spa getting her nails done.
There was some dissension among us at the bear exhibit as to whether there was an actual bear in it. The discussion went something like this:
"There's a bear, right there!" [The rest of us squint at what appears to be a shadow in a cave-like opening.]
"No, it's just a shadow."
"No, it's a bear!"
This went on, with minor variations, for some time, until we really didn't care whether the shadow was a bear or a shadow or even an endangered Panamanian frog. But if the frog knew what was good for it, it would stay in the air conditioning.
________
*I will not, although it is tempting, generalize these facts to any other species that include a male.
But this summer has been much more comfortable than usual. Some friends therefore suggested we visit the zoo with them and their children, which is to be avoided on hot days, so we headed there on...what turned out to be the hottest day of the summer.
Basically, the people at the visitor's center told us, we should go see all the animals right away, because the animals are smart, and by 11:30 they would be comfortably holed up in their air-conditioned areas, whereas we would be left looking at empty enclosures and panting from the heat.
This sounded like a good plan to us. The air-conditioned part, I mean. Thus we spent 52 minutes closely studying the endangered Panamanian frog, which is a whopping 1.3 inches long and is capable of sitting still with no movement whatsoever for long periods of time (in our experience, at least 52 minutes), but which was nevertheless extremely interesting because it was in a section of the Amazonian building that had air conditioning.
Air conditioning, you might know from your knowledge of climates, is not typical of Amazonian weather in the wild. There the temperatures usually hover around 963 degrees and the humidity is like having it rain inside your sauna, only worse. And indeed, this atmosphere is re-created in most of the Amazonian building at the zoo, which keeps the animals happy but makes visitors a little testy. In recognition of this, the building designers put in a door off the main entrance that bypasses the entire steamy part of the exhibit, a fact that we regrettably did not discover until we had been in the steamy section so long we feared that, like the Panamanian frog, we would be next on the endangered list.
Scientists are studying why the Panamanian frog is disappearing at alarming rates in the wild, but it doesn't take a great brain to guess the reason. We can use these simple facts to discern the cause:
1. The frogs are disappearing from the Amazon, which as we have discussed is way hot.
2. They thrive when placed in the zoo's complimentary air-conditioned tanks.
Ergo, the frogs have been leaving the 963-degree weather in vast numbers (according to rumors, on chartered AirPanama flights) and heading for various zoos with air conditioning.
Now that that mystery is solved, we can start putting all the money currently going toward this issue into air-conditioning the rest of the zoo, including the entire outside.
Eventually we ran out of air-conditioned environments and were forced to stand outside to see some of the animals. A splendid male lion was sprawled among the rocks, probably pondering which of the visitors looked the most weakened from the sun and would be easy pickings. But of course we weren't too worried, because male lions do not kill prey themselves. They depend on the womenfolk to do it for them*, and Mrs. Lion was, as any other wise female would be on such a sultry day, no doubt at a spa getting her nails done.
There was some dissension among us at the bear exhibit as to whether there was an actual bear in it. The discussion went something like this:
"There's a bear, right there!" [The rest of us squint at what appears to be a shadow in a cave-like opening.]
"No, it's just a shadow."
"No, it's a bear!"
This went on, with minor variations, for some time, until we really didn't care whether the shadow was a bear or a shadow or even an endangered Panamanian frog. But if the frog knew what was good for it, it would stay in the air conditioning.
________
*I will not, although it is tempting, generalize these facts to any other species that include a male.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Ya want a new bathroom with that?
Old homes generally have many flaws, commonly known as "charming characteristics." They might include walls that are not quite square, narrow stairways that demand new ways of climbing and descending, drafty windows that confuse insects into thinking inside is outside, etc. Owners, such as the Hero and I, live with these features because, initially, they are charming, and because the real estate agent assured us that "clients pay through the nose to have warped floors," and after a while we live with them because we forget they are there.
That is, until someone else points them out, and we realize that perhaps we have been remiss in thinking that these characteristics are charming.
Such a person is Richard, the all-seeing contractor. Richard came to our home to fix ceiling damage created by a leaky skylight, and left having fixed a half-dozen "characteristics" entirely unrelated to the ceiling damage. He also offered recommendations for roughly 357 other characteristics of our home's interior, many of which, through determined forgetfulness on our part, we did not even know existed.
Each of Richard's recommendations was accompanied by three statements:
1. "I'm not trying to get more money out of ya, but..."
2. "Doesn't that ______ [fill in name of charming characteristic] bother you? I can fix that for you."
3. "Like I said, I'm not trying to get more money out of ya, but..."
Hard as it was, I politely refused most of Richard's upgrade suggestions, which included smoothing out all of the ceilings that were painted in a "popcorn" style and doing something above the kitchen cabinets, which I did not follow, but that would, he promised, "make it look really special. Not that it doesn't look nice the way you have it now," he hastened to add.
We went along like this for some time, Richard making suggestions for repairs and me making excuses for why we didn't think we wanted to replace all the doors with steel and stained glass ones right now. Or, possibly, ever.
Finally, near the end of his visit, he boomed, "Why don't ya put another bathroom in? You got just the one."
At the time we were standing in what the Hero and I call our study, which contains two computer desks, a built-in bookcase, a small sofa, an armoire, a heavy wooden four-drawer filing cabinet, and numerous books without a fixed home because they do not fit into the built-in bookcase, all crammed into a room the size of a small dishwasher. This is also the room where we generally entertain guests, mostly because our other rooms are more the size of a sink.
"You could put it right there," he said promptly, and with a wave of his hand he obliterated an entire corner of the room, the one housing the Hero's desk and the armoire.
I tried to picture even a small bathroom in the corner of our main living and entertaining space, and failed. Richard was undaunted. When he went downstairs he yelled up, "Or you could put a bathroom down here. Right in front of this brick and stone wall here."
Of course. Who needs a brick and stone wall that holds 170 years of history, when you could have a commode there instead?
Miraculously, the house escaped any transformations as Richard took his leave. "You think about that bathroom, now," he said as he walked to his truck. "Would be real easy to put it in. All's you need is a toilet and sink and a water line...let me know if you change your mind...and the kitchen too -- now there, I would recommend...."
I breathed a sigh of relief when his truck disappeared from view. I think the house did too.
That is, until someone else points them out, and we realize that perhaps we have been remiss in thinking that these characteristics are charming.
Such a person is Richard, the all-seeing contractor. Richard came to our home to fix ceiling damage created by a leaky skylight, and left having fixed a half-dozen "characteristics" entirely unrelated to the ceiling damage. He also offered recommendations for roughly 357 other characteristics of our home's interior, many of which, through determined forgetfulness on our part, we did not even know existed.
Each of Richard's recommendations was accompanied by three statements:
1. "I'm not trying to get more money out of ya, but..."
2. "Doesn't that ______ [fill in name of charming characteristic] bother you? I can fix that for you."
3. "Like I said, I'm not trying to get more money out of ya, but..."
Hard as it was, I politely refused most of Richard's upgrade suggestions, which included smoothing out all of the ceilings that were painted in a "popcorn" style and doing something above the kitchen cabinets, which I did not follow, but that would, he promised, "make it look really special. Not that it doesn't look nice the way you have it now," he hastened to add.
We went along like this for some time, Richard making suggestions for repairs and me making excuses for why we didn't think we wanted to replace all the doors with steel and stained glass ones right now. Or, possibly, ever.
Finally, near the end of his visit, he boomed, "Why don't ya put another bathroom in? You got just the one."
At the time we were standing in what the Hero and I call our study, which contains two computer desks, a built-in bookcase, a small sofa, an armoire, a heavy wooden four-drawer filing cabinet, and numerous books without a fixed home because they do not fit into the built-in bookcase, all crammed into a room the size of a small dishwasher. This is also the room where we generally entertain guests, mostly because our other rooms are more the size of a sink.
"You could put it right there," he said promptly, and with a wave of his hand he obliterated an entire corner of the room, the one housing the Hero's desk and the armoire.
I tried to picture even a small bathroom in the corner of our main living and entertaining space, and failed. Richard was undaunted. When he went downstairs he yelled up, "Or you could put a bathroom down here. Right in front of this brick and stone wall here."
Of course. Who needs a brick and stone wall that holds 170 years of history, when you could have a commode there instead?
Miraculously, the house escaped any transformations as Richard took his leave. "You think about that bathroom, now," he said as he walked to his truck. "Would be real easy to put it in. All's you need is a toilet and sink and a water line...let me know if you change your mind...and the kitchen too -- now there, I would recommend...."
I breathed a sigh of relief when his truck disappeared from view. I think the house did too.
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